


A Window That Opens Like A Door

by SaltysScribbles



Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: How do you like having a merry go round thrown at your face boo, Time Travel Bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29988417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltysScribbles/pseuds/SaltysScribbles
Summary: The fourth dimension is not as strict a progression of events as most scientists tend to believe it is. In fact, two of them have managed to prove its flexibility by inadvertently dragging a dangerous AI and a legion of its followers into the present era, and turning it loose on the world.Fortunately, for the fate of the planet, and for the expert they've hired to track it down, something else has come along for the ride, as well.Or perhaps, someONE would be a better way to put it...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

Rain patters against the windows of the apartment, making an already chilly night even more miserable.

Not that it bothers Elisabet, any; San Francisco's rainy season is easily fended off, in her opinion, with a judicious application of umbrellas and outerwear. And she's not about to let the sheets of water coursing down the glass dampen her spirits. Not when she has an evening presentation to attend, and the possibility of some time to reconnect with friends after the talk is done to look forward to.

She's seated on the edge of the ottoman, tying off her scarf, when the news alert pings on her heads-up pane, and her fingers tangle abruptly in the knot as she glances up absently at the headline.

_**"Professor Jacqueline Loveday Found Dead at Berkeley Home."** _

It's like a physical blow, and it brings her good mood crashing down around her ears in an instant, sending a pulse of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Pulling up the story with shaking hands, she scans it quickly; signs of forced entry, multiple stab wounds... and oddly enough, no valuables missing. Perhaps a simple case of a burglary gone wrong, according to the Civil Protection investigator interviewed. But the investigation is ongoing.

The article mostly read, and the salient points gathered, she presses a hand to bloodless lips, considering it again, stomach twisting up painfully.

_Multiple stab wounds doesn't sound like a burglary gone wrong. But who would have a reason to do something like this to Dr. Loveday?_

Most of the country's top robotics experts owed at least part of their education to her, after all, and she'd been universally liked, as far as Elisabet can remember. She'd certainly found the woman endearing, back when they'd been members of the same institution, bad jokes and all.

Another chime announces the calculated Time-To-Leave reminder for the evening's outing and she flinches.

_That's right... Anita's talk. I wonder if she'll reschedule in light of this._

But there's nothing to indicate that that’s the case in her message display when she thumbs it open to check. There _is_ , however, a new Note available in her sidebar. One with no subject or title.

_Did I leave myself a reminder, here?_

Frowning, she selects the file, revealing a brief message, followed by a long listing of names that runs the remaining length of the display, and keeps going;

**_You don't know me. But I want to help you. Your life may be in danger; I think they're targeting people who worked on Zero Dawn. Trying to wipe you all out before it even comes to pass. You need to_ ** **hide** _**. All of you do. Somewhere safe, where they won't be able to track you down. I can't contact any of the others; getting this message to you was lucky as it is. If you can get to them, pass this message on to them. Please. I can't protect all of you at once. But I** _ **can** _**warn you.** _

It’s unsigned, and she reads over it a few times, the frown deepening, before hazarding a glance at the listed names below.

I _definitely didn’t write this one. Who did? How did it get into my mail client? And... what the hell is a ‘Zero Dawn?’_

The name at the top of the column immediately following is her own. And a few of the ones immediately below it are familiar, as well; friends, semi-celebrities well known in the academic disciplines that have overlapped with hers... one who's... maybe not _quite_ a friend, but familiar, nonetheless.

It's a long list, and most of the people on it are unfamiliar. But names jump out at her as she flicks down its' length; Anita is on it. Brad Andac, a name recognizable from her days at FAS. Tom Paech, of US Fish and Wildlife, with whom she's worked before...

...and Jacqueline Loveday, about a third of the way in, listed among several other prominent robotics engineers. 

That gives her pause, and she presses her hand to her mouth again.

_Multiple stab wounds, forced entry, no valuables removed..._

Another Time-To-Leave alert pings, and she sinks her teeth into her lip, considering for a moment, before snatching up the abandoned scarf, and tying it deftly around her neck.

Best case scenario? It really _is_ a failed burglary, tragic, but random. And she attends another lecture by one of her peers, with all of the usual, accompanying social events. Has company to process the bad news with, even.

Worst case scenario?

Pausing with a hand on the light switch, Elisabet shakes her head.

_...I'm not going to think about the worst case scenario, right now. Not when it'll probably kick in in about six blocks with or without me helping it along._


	2. Chapter 2

It still doesn’t seem real. Not with the sterile hospital smell invading her nostrils, and the uncomfortable plastic of the waiting room seat digging into the sides of her legs. Not even with the hard-light stitches in her hand and wrist, and her arm still numb up to the shoulder. In fact, it’s the twist of bloodstained blue silk now crumpled in her lap that’s the most grounding part of it all. The texture of it against her skin, the unfamiliar patterns, even blotched with dark stains as they are... it’s all so out of place that it can’t be anything but proof that she hasn’t dreamed the whole thing up, after all.

_That... really happened, didn’t it? The masked attackers, the arrows and spears... the red-haired girl..._

With difficulty, she winds the scrap of silk through the fingers of her good hand.

_The only one of us who seemed to have any sort of idea what was going on. And I just let her go. Well... handed her my scarf and let her go._

But had she had a choice, really? _**“I have other lives to save tonight,”**_ the girl had said. The conviction in her voice had made it so damned _believable_.

_And... was I... just in shock over all of that, or did she look like...?_

The doors glide open, scattering her thoughts, and she rises to her feet as the surgeon emerges, eyes briefly scanning the waiting area before finally settling on her.

“How is she?”

The man nods, and Elisabet lets out a breath that she can't remember beginning to hold.

“Stable. It's a pretty serious puncture, and she’s lost a lot of blood, but I think the prognosis is good. We're transferring her up to ICU, now. You're the one who's staying until her family arrives, then?"

Nodding, she does her best to wiggle the fingers of her deadened hand. Whether or not she succeeds? She can't actually tell. But hopefully it's enough to illustrate her point.

"Yeah. I was the natural choice. They told me I shouldn't drive until I can feel my arm again, and I tend to have trouble with autocars... the Faro-branded ones, anyway. They like to lose my addresses."

At that, he squints, peering more closely at her face for a moment or two, before the recognition sets in, and he favors her with a little half-grin.

"Ah. _Ah_. I thought you looked familiar. Well. I'd speak to someone at the front desk. They'll be able to sort things out for you. I’ll send the data along. I believe the attending CivPro wanted a word with you, as well.”

Despite her most valiant efforts to keep her groan of dismay mental, she does let a bit of it slip out, along with a subtle roll of the eyes.

_Great_. Civil Protection. A headache to go along with her fucking _spear wound_ is just what she needs tonight, _thank you_.

“Of course they do. They use Faro tech too, don’t they?”

It’s... mostly a lighthearted joke, and it gets her a chuckle from the surgeon as they part ways. Still, she crushes the scarf into her pocket well before she even reaches the elevator.

The Civil Protection agent in question is, indeed, waiting at the desk when the lift finally deposits her in the lobby. It takes the woman a much shorter inspection to determine who she is, and her reaction is much more pronounced; she lets out a groan, reaching up to massage her temples and shooting a droll look in Elisabet’s direction.

“Well, that would explain a lot. ‘Suspicious person,’ huh? Did you know the drone does that with just about _every_ fucking redhead it sees these days? I can’t wait for the next service pack to _fix_ the bastard.”

It’s a level of candor she definitely wasn’t expecting, and she laughs out loud despite her best efforts to stay carefully neutral. The woman pulls up a file on her wristlet, finger poised for note-taking as she inclines her head.

“Let’s make this as quick as we can so I can get back to the actual investigation, then, Doctor. Can you give me your statement about what happened tonight? In as few words as possible, please, I’ve been interviewing witnesses for the past few hours while I wait. I think I have the shape of things pretty well down.”

Beginning to pace the area in front of the desk in slow, meandering steps, as is her usual habit, Elisabet frowns at the tips of her boots, doing her best to organize her thoughts.

“All right... in as few words as possible? I... went to a colleague’s talk, which was also attended by a pack of masked attackers with crude weaponry. Panicked a little when she took an arrow straight in the ribs and leaned on my Fight response. Stupidly grabbed a spear point with my bare hand to keep it away from her. Probably... only wasn’t skewered myself by the grace of another attendee who had thought ahead and brought her _own_ spear to the event.... does that work for you?”

Apparently, she has provided a bit of new information; the CivPro officer raises an eyebrow, tapping furiously at her invisible paperwork.

“Another attendee?”

Briefly, Elisabet wonders if mentioning the girl was a mistake. But the words are out, now, and she can’t take them back. She shrugs, instead, lopsidedly; the numbed shoulder manages a little up-and-down twitch.

“I’m guessing she wasn’t there for the lecture on machine learning, but yeah. She stood in opposition to the masked ones. Tried to protect the rest of us, from what I saw. Long hair, elaborate braids... seemed pretty comfortable with running a man through? Gave me some very good tips on keeping said colleague from dying before she chased the masked ones out of the auditorium. I’d assume they’re enemies.”

She doesn’t mention her suspicions about the girl’s appearance. Especially not when she’s only half-certain about it herself.

The woman hums to herself thoughtfully, pressing her note-taking finger to her lips.

“That does track... there _was_ a body there, with a puncture wound through the throat. Gene scan and facial imaging didn’t match up with any records at all. We’re still working that one out. And you didn’t see where any of them went?”

Pausing in mid-stride, she raises an eyebrow, giving the officer a sardonic look.

“Anita was _bleeding to death_ , I was a little busy.”

The woman has to concede, sticking out her lower lip and bobbling her head from side to side.

“Fair point. Well. That’s all I need from you. Hope the, uhhh, rest of your night is better, Doctor.”

The front desk does, in fact, get her sorted, with a less bloodied shirt to change into, and directions to Anita’s room. She finally gets a chance to open her personal communications on the elevator ride back up.

There’s a message from her mother, of course (”Sorry to hear about Dr. Loveday... do you need to talk? Call me. It’s not too late.”) and... oddly enough, one from a Dr. Edgar Balodis, requesting that she set aside a time to meet. A quick tango with the integrated search engine pulls up an article about something he’s calling a “Fourth-Dimensional Visual Analysis Chamber” (and a quote from one of his graduate students imploring readers not to call it “time travel” lest they risk a tongue-lashing from the good doctor himself.)

It’s enough to throw her for perhaps the hundredth time this evening, and she frowns at the message, trying to fit it into the sequence of events in a way that makes sense.

_That’s strange... why would a spacetime physicist want to consult with an environmental engineer?_

For the moment, though, neither of them is the person she needs to speak to. 

It takes a little doing with her fingers still numb (typing is a chore,) and her wristlet in the exact wrong place to be operated with her left hand. But she does eventually find her way to the specific part of the holonet she’s looking for, logging into her account with a quick biometric scan, and tapping over into her private messages. She finds the thread she’s looking for relatively easily, and, with some difficulty, adds a response to its end.

_**You there?** _

He is; it only takes a few minutes of waiting for the response to appear in a post below hers. She can almost hear the sarcasm dripping from the letters, even without Voice Chat enabled.

_**Well, well, well! Look who it is. All the private threads, in all the forums, in all the holonet, and she walks into mine.** _

It’s enough to make her groan out loud, and her annoyance powers her through the awkwardness of typing with deadened fingers.

_**Spare me, Tate. You still owe me a favor. And I need to ask you something.** _

This time, there’s no pause before he replies.

_**That I do. Ask away, darlin’. Your wish is my command.** _

For a moment, she considers exactly how to phrase the question. It sounds absolutely _insane_ , the more she thinks about it. Especially with the doubts she has about the night’s events, herself. But...

But it’s also the only explanation that makes any sort of sense to her, right now. 

With clumsy fingers, she types her query into the text box.

_**What do you know about illegal cloning?** _


	3. Chapter 3

In the narrow, dark spaces between buildings and across the puddles of light left by streetlights, the fight is still raging.

Aloy has zeroed in on one of the fleeing cultists, and is catching up rapidly, fueled by anger and determination. And judging by the glances he’s throwing over his shoulder, he knows that she’ll be upon him soon.

So it doesn’t surprise her at all that, when he skitters around a corner, and she follows suit, she’s met with the thrusting end of a blade, hastily yanked from its sheath and slammed in her direction in a clumsy attempt at an ambush. It’s simple enough to turn out of the way of the thrust, pivoting sideways, and bringing her spear up and forward in a ferocious thrust. The tip slams into the wooden mask, snapping it in two, and the man staggers back a step, wiping at his mouth and cursing under his breath before stepping back up to take another swing in her direction with the sword.

She parries this blow, catching it on the haft of the spear and turning it aside, before striking out with a foot, aiming for her opponent's ankles. The tap of her toes against his leg is enough to throw him off, and as he tenses, focusing his attention on his footing, she drives forward, slamming the spearshaft against his throat and pinning him against the wall.

"Tell me what I want to know," she hisses, leaning in to place her bared teeth nearly against the wood of the mask, "and I _might_ give you a chance to live."

His only answer is a harsh gagging sound, before he winds up and spits a glob of bloody phlegm through the broken part of the mask. It spatters against her cheek, and, curling her lip in disgust, she whirls the weapon in her hands lightning-quick, bringing the point inward and ramming it through the cultist’s heart.

“Have it your way, then.”

As she steps back and lets the body slump down the wall to the ground, she reaches up to wipe the spittle from her face with the furred edge of her bracer. Which brings the green scarf, still wrapped haphazardly around her hand, into view, and gives her a moment of pause.

She’d hardly been expecting to run into its owner, tonight. Especially not in the middle of a melee with the Eclipse. But with time, now, to consider the night’s events, she supposes that it does make sense. The talk that Dr. Sandoval had been giving had been highly technical; Aloy herself had only understood small bits of it, tucked into her hiding place and... ostensibly keeping an eye out for any signs of trouble.

She hadn’t done a very good job of that, as it turned out. But part of it had, admittedly, been her fascination with the topic, and the shift in her attention from observing to... at least _attempting_ to understand. There had been recordings of images, like holograms, but flat, and in all of the colors of life. There had been recordings of voices, of conversations between woman and machine, with increasingly complex topics of conversation as the AI grew, and learned.

And there had been... an arrow striking the podium. Chaos breaking loose as she wrenched herself back to the present, and scrambled into action, far too late to prevent tragedy, but with just enough time to stop it from becoming irreversible.

In the end, she’d left her target... targets, in one another’s care, her scarf wrapped around the bleeding hand of her predecessor in the absence of spare bandages... and the green scarf, offered clumsily in return.

_**“It’s... cold out there,”**_ was what she’d managed to muster through her shock when she’d handed it over, and despite the inanity of the statement, Aloy feels... strangely _warmed_ by the moment of concern. She runs the scarf through her hands again, tracing one of the blocks of lighter color decorating it with a fingertip.

It’s not made of a material she’s encountered before. Silky, but with a distinctly hairlike feel to it. One that makes her wonder at the origin.

_Some kind of animal, maybe? Its hair, or fur?_

Experimentally, she winds it around her neck, tucking one end in under the necklaces, and letting the other dangle briefly across her hand mid-wrap.

“Oh,” she murmurs to no one in particular, stroking at the tassels that hang from its end, “it’s...really warm.”

And soft, too. She could... get used to wearing it. It _is_ cold out here.

She finishes winding the scarf and tucking in the ends before thumbing on her Focus, and giving the area a quick scan. No other Eclipse biosignatures are immediately visible in the vicinity. But she’s willing to bet that she’ll find boot tracks, if she pokes around in the greener parts of the area a bit.

Hell, it’s so _bright_ out, with all of the light spilling from the windows of buildings and the tall, crooked poles dangling their glowing orbs over the stone pathways, and the front of the rolling machines that transport people along them (as she’d... unfortunately learned after ramming her spear into the grill at the front of one when it had made a loud, threatening sound at her,) that she probably won’t even need to use the Focus to find them.

How _anyone_ in this city navigates without being able to see the stars is still a mystery to her.

Dismissing the interface and shooting one last look at the crumpled body, she picks her way over the tangled limbs, and down the alley, to the open lawn beyond.

She has more hunting to do, before the night is over.


	4. Chapter 4

The Balodis Lab is, to put it mildly, a complete disaster area.

The walls and ceiling of the inner chamber are barely holding together, battered and scraped and missing chunks here and there, and in one, notable place, gone entirely, exposing a flapping tarp, and the sounds of traffic passing on the street beyond. Bullet holes have punched into the plaster, in places, and through the observation glass, where it's still intact. Plenty of the windows are missing panes, or so spiderwebbed with cracks as to be nearly opaque.

And hunched in the middle of the destruction, feathered with arrow shafts and covered in scorch marks and slash wounds, is the inert chassis of, of all things, an FAS-Khopesh unit, strange symbols and streaks of paint splashed across its metal hide. A huge, metal sphere is halfway buried in the floor beneath its sprawled legs, giving it the vague impression of a mother bird, brooding an enormous metal egg.

The sight of the machine on its own would be enough to give Elisabet a headache on a good day. But given the context? It's beginning to look more like Migraine Season.

"So... step me through this, again," she says, pressing her knuckles to her mouth thoughtfully. "You said this device was... supposed to function like a... window, or a projector of sorts?"

Her guide nods, fishing out a keycard and hesitating for a moment at the proximity sensor, before reaching through the shattered glass of the antechamber door, and turning the knob manually, instead.

"Yeah. A window that swung open like a fucking door, and let in one of those god damned kill-bots."

She realizes how unprofessional her assessment is the moment it leaves her mouth; Elisabet can see it in the sudden tension of her shoulders and the grimace that puckers the corners of her mouth.

"Sorry, I just-"

Waving a hand, she grins, giving the young woman a conspiratorial look.

"It's fine. I'm sure my feelings on the subject are pretty much public record at this point. But I won't tell, if your mentor's the strict sort, Miss...?"

"Anna's fine," she replies, some of the tension ebbing as she steps aside to allow Elisabet through, "And he is. Very formal. I'd appreciate it. He'll be along in just a minute or two. If you'd like to examine things..."

Already beginning to pace the edge of the room, she makes a noise of assent, pausing to examine a spot where several arrow shafts have stuck into the wall in a line.

_Same feathers as the ones from the auditorium. That red-and-black color scheme. And... the ones in the Khopesh..._

Bracing a foot against the Chariot machine's hull, she yanks one of the arrows loose, rubbing the blue feathers fletching its end between her fingers, before tucking it through a belt loop and craning her neck back to study the Khopesh further.

_...yeah. They match the ones in the girl's quiver. So the machine was with the masked attackers. Makes sense, given the matching paint. And that means that she... took it out? With a bow and arrow?_ Damn _. That's..._ impressive _. Wonder if she used something else, alongside the arrows and spear? This thing looks... burned, in places?_

She's running a hand over the carbon scoring on the machine's upper turret when the door buzzes, and Anna murmurs a greeting. Poking her head around the side of the gun reveals the source; a thickset man with greying hair and a pair of rectangular glasses, dressed in a tweed that seems far too formal, next to her own attire.

"Please excuse my lateness, Doctor," he calls, as she picks her way down off of the machine's carcass, "I'm Edgar Balodis, the PI of the lab group. Miss Faro didn't give you too much trouble getting in, I hope?"

That catches her off guard, and she frowns, glancing between Dr. Balodis and Anna, who looks increasingly as though she would like it very much if the floor would swallow her whole.

"Miss... _Faro_?"

Seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, Balodis nods.

"Our PhD candidate, Anna Faro, yes. Has she explained the events of last week's test, yet?"

For a moment, she's at a loss as to how to respond, questions pawing urgently at the back of her mind.

_Ted didn't... have any kids. Or a spouse. Did he have siblings? He never talked about them, if he did..._

What she finally settles on is a smile that she hopes is friendly.

"No, she hasn't. I'd love to hear it. And to know why you've requested this meeting. I'm still in the dark as to why you'd want to consult with me on this."

Dr. Balodis nods, giving Anna a "well, go on," gesture with an open hand, and she swallows hard, eyes flicking toward Elisabet very briefly, before they finally land on the toes of her shoes.

"OK, so... the chamber is supposed to work like, uhm... like a projector, more or less. I told you that. To analyze events along the fourth dimensional axis, if we're going with a spacetime theory, which-"

She cuts herself off abruptly, clearing her throat.

"I'm rambling. Sorry. It's... supposed to be like a window. Into the past, into the future... whichever direction along the axis we slide it. But, umm..."

It's easy enough to finish the thought.

"But it brought the entire living, breathing scene, instead of just an image of it, didn't it?"

This time, finding the courage to look her in the face, Anna nods, mouth quirking in a wry half-smile.

"Yeah. Dropped a the big guy and a bunch of brawling people right in the middle of the lab. We, uhhh..."

Grimacing, she lays a hand on the nearest shattered wall.

"...we weren't specced for a combat robot. It made a mess of the place... would have made a mess of us, too. Fortunately, one of our... passengers... was nice enough to cut it down for us."

Now _that_ sounds familiar. Her hand drops to the blue feathers at the arrow's end, and she draws it from her belt loop, giving the fletching a little shake in Anna's direction for emphasis.

"I think I know who you're talking about. She was at Stanford, too. Is... that the reason you wanted to consult with me? Because of her... resemblance to me?"

Judging by the look that passes between mentor and student, it's a factor that they haven't considered, yet. The measured shake of Dr. Balodis' head only confirms it, and he reaches into the briefcase slung over his shoulder, withdrawing a datapad and firing up its onboard holoprojector as he speaks.

"Interesting point... one worth looking into. But, no. We requested a consult because of... this."

The scene that unfolds as he begins a playback is one of the chamber in chaos; alarms blaring faintly, the snap and spark of severed cables, and the crunching and grinding of walls, as the Khopesh struggles to move in the confined space, tearing out chunks and blasting away with its top-mounted guns, in an effort to create more space for itself. The human combatants, small in comparison, scrap at each other through the obstacle course of ruined room and machine-bulk. She finds the girl almost immediately, catching sight of the distinctive flash of red braids, even in the washed-out blue-purple of the hologram's overall tone. The entire group seems to be arrayed against her, but, admirably, she's holding her own, ducking behind fallen pieces of ceiling and scrap metal from the blown-out device components for cover, and striking, lightning-fast, when an opening presents itself for her arrows or spear.

In the midst of the fracas, the metal sphere lying at the Chariot unit's feet begins to light from within, the glass panes covering its surface igniting with a pulsing glow that comes across as... sinister, somehow.

_**"NETWORK CONNECTION ESTABLISHED."** _

The voice is harsh, guttural and laced with static, and even the sound of the three words is enough to raise the hairs on the back of Elisabet's neck.

Something _leaps_ from beneath the Khopesh, almost too quickly to be perceived. Something that appears on the holoscreen as red and ragged, and that leaps straight for the sheathed cabling hanging from the ceiling, vanishing as it touches the edges. Almost in perfect unison, in time with the flash of motion, the masked attackers break off their assault, heads tilting as if to catch a sound that only they can hear. One by one, flattening themselves to the edges of the chamber and making their way around the Khopesh's bulk, they slip from the fight, and away through the hole, into the night beyond. Leaving the girl and her quarry alone in the ruined room.

Balodis stops the playback before the outcome of their battle can play; it's easy enough to guess the result, based on the mangled machine sprawled just feet away, and with the mysterious blue scarf still waiting for pickup from the cleaners'. And... to guess what it is that the Khopesh was guarding to its last "breath," as well.

Jabbing the end of the arrow toward the metal sphere... the _processing unit._.. she blows out a steadying breath through pursed lips.

"You've... got a rogue AI on your hands. One with an unknown directive and skillset."

Balodis nods, grimly, and Anna, dropping her gaze to her toes again, does her best to shrink into herself and vanish a second time.

"Yes. And... if you're amenable... we'd like your help catching it."


	5. Chapter 5

This is the third time that Aloy has intervened in the past two days.

She doesn't recognize the face of the man sprawled on the floor behind her, gaping at the scene before him, but the fact that she's currently standing in the space between him and a pair of Eclipse cultists is proof enough that she's in the right place.

Half-turning her head over her shoulder, not daring to take her eyes off of her foes, and barks out a command.

" _ **Go!!!**_ "

He doesn't need to be told twice, scrambling away over the floor even as he clambers to his feet. With her target safely out of the way for now, she turns back toward the Eclipse troops, sizing them up and hefting Sylens' spear in her hands.

Only two. She's lucky, this time; she can handle two without too much trouble.

For a moment, they stare each other down, the cultists' inscrutable masks giving nothing away, and her own curled into a threatening snarl. When the one on the left twitches, reaching for a sword at his side, she tenses, then whirls the lance up to intercept a blow from the one on the right. Sparks flash between them as blade grinds against blade, and she disengages with a harsh shove, ducking back as the second one finally pulls the sword, and takes a swing in her direction.

Planting her back foot and choking up on the lance's shaft, Aloy pivots back toward the first attacker, swinging the weapon toward him, and scoring a glancing hit across the ribs as he curses and sidesteps half a moment too late. The second brings the sword down toward her in a vicious, overhand swing as he closes the distance between them, and she brings up the spearshaft to fend it off, catching the blade on the haft with a harsh clang. They push against each other for a moment, testing each others' strength of arm, before she shoves him off, planting a foot in the center of his chest and giving him a push for good measure.

It... does have the unfortunate effect of leaving her back open. The first part of the strike carves a line of chill pain across the top of her shoulder, and she yelps, spinning aside before the rest of the glaive can follow through. As the rest of the missed strike whooshes through empty air, she takes her chance, lunging forward and driving the lance into the opening left by her opponent's wild swing. The tip of it pops straight through the man's ribs, making a mess of his vitals, and he lets out a harsh, gasping gurgle as she withdraws it, sinking to his knees on the carpeted floor.

One down. She whirls to find the other swinging the sword toward her in a series of short, rapid arcs, forcing her to back away, until her back fetches up against the wall, and she pulls her elbows forward, bracing the lance in front of her in a defensive position. With his quarry cornered, the cultist lets out a low, dark chuckle, and thrusts forward with the sharpened tip of the blade, aiming for her throat.

He doesn't expect her to drop straight to her knees, taking herself out of the way of the strike with effective inelegance.

The sword embeds itself in the wall, and before he can pull it free, she lunges up and forward, skewering the second cultist on its end. Her momentum carries them halfway across the room before she finally stops, letting the body slide off the end of her weapon, and collapse into a heap at her feet.

Finished for now, she rests the lance on the floor, leaning on it as she takes a moment to catch her breath.

_Two more down. How many are left? I'm cutting their numbers down, but..._

But there are multiple Eclipse. And just one of her.

Something shifts behind her, and for a moment, she tenses up, head whipping toward the source of the movement. It's the future Zero Dawn employee, poking his head around the edge of a doorframe, further down the hall. Aloy softens her expression at the sight, letting the tension drain.

"Are you all right?"

Eyes still wide, breath still shivery and barely controlled, he nods, taking in the bodies sprawled on the floor, and the trickle of blood down the shoulder of her leathers.

"Y-yeah. Yeah. I... y-you're bleeding."

For the first time, she presses a hand to the wound, experimentally, studying the blood staining her fingertips for a moment before wiping it off on the edge of her tunic; it stings, yes, but it's not enough to slow her down, for now. She shakes her head.

"I'll be fine. But you... you need to get out of here. Go into hiding. Somewhere that you wouldn't normally be found."

Picking up the lance and sliding it back into the sling attached to her back, she indicates the bodies with a jerk of her head.

"There are others like this. They'll come for you again, if they know you're still here."

_That_ gets through to him; despite the way his eyes keep traveling back to her wound, he sobers, nodding.

"I can stay with my sister for a while, without too much trouble. Are you... are you sure you're-?"

He actually flinches as she points toward the door, giving her finger a forceful second thrust for emphasis.

"Get _going_. I have other lives to save tonight."

As he nods, muttering his final thanks and scrambling back through the doorway to bang and crash around in the room beyond, Aloy steps over the pair of bodies, picking her way back out onto the balcony on the room's other end, and heaving herself up onto the edge of the railing with a sigh.

According to the data she's downloaded to her Focus, her next target is miles away, almost halfway around the bay's edge, and the moon is climbing toward its zenith.

Time is _not_ on her side.

Rolling her injured shoulder to test its soundness, and nodding to herself, she begins the long climb back to the ground, and toward her next task.


	6. Chapter 6

Even with the temperature dropping as autumn progresses into winter, Pier 39 is alive with activity. The carousel pipes a lively tune as it whirls, gulls and sea lions call from their perches along the water's edge. Children whoop and laugh, racing between attractions, and the Musical Stairs chime with random footsteps in the distance.

It's, frankly, the last place that one might expect to find a rogue AI. But it's the place that's been popping up over and over again with each analysis that Elisabet has run.

"You sure this is the place?" Anna asks, interlacing her fingers and drumming the tips across her knuckles. "It seems kind of..."

"Silly?" she fills in, raising an eyebrow and tweaking a few settings on the scanner clutched in her left hand, "I thought so, too, at first. But all of the data I've gathered so far seems to indicate that this thing is interested in machinery. The bigger and more intricate, the better. And, around here, there's plenty of intricate machinery to be had, between all of the holo-coasters and other rides. If I'm right, this is the next place that it'll start to search. Although... for what, I don't know."

Anna sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, chewing at it thoughtfully.

"And then, you can get a... snapshot?"

The scanner pings, briefly, and they both fall silent, staring intently at the screen. When a second ping fails to materialize, Elisabet lets out a sigh, frowning at the device and giving the side a hard tap.

"Yeah. A sample of the code, hopefully pointing toward its purpose. I don't think recapture is a realistic goal, at this stage. But if I can determine a directive? Then I can tailor a lure to bring it in."

The scanner pings again, and this time, the second pulse comes on its heels.

“Ah! There we go. Second level. Let’s go.”

The upper deck is just as crowded with families and restaurant goers as the lower. Pausing to let a pair of shrieking children dart across the path in front of her, Elisabet takes a moment to check the scanner, which has begun to pulse in earnest, now.

_Definitely something active around here... but is it our AI? Or something else?_

When she looks up, her heart leaps into her throat, fluttering against the base of her jaw.

Tucked into the space between two of the buildings is a shadowy figure, doing their best to keep back and out of sight, clad in a familiar, ragged black hood, and gleaming metal collar. As the figure turns its head, scanning the crowd, she gets a glimpse of whitewashed wood beneath the cowl’s edge.

“Uh oh.”

Somewhat distracted with her own dance around a family struggling to take a picture in the midst of the flow, Anna makes only a distracted noise of acknowledgment.

“What?”

Planting a hand on her shoulder, she turns the physicist gently toward the cowled figure. Anna draws in a sharp breath as she spots him, too.

“Uh oh.”

Nodding, she sets her mouth grimly, glancing down at the scanner again. Still chiming. Still indicating the presence of a data-based entity. 

“Our rogue AI is definitely around here somewhere, if his guards are here. Maybe you’d better peel off. See if there’s someone you can alert. I’ll keep on the trail.”

Anna nods, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder.

“Yeah. I think so, too. Will you be all right...?”

“Of course. I’ll stay out of sight, as much as I can.”

For a moment, Anna looks like she wants to argue about that. But, eventually, she nods, making a noise of uncertainty.

“Ok. But... you’d better be careful. Get your data snapshot, and get out. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“I never do,” she answers. Lies.

She lets Anna make it halfway down the stairs before pulling up her collar, and resuming her walk along the upper deck, keeping a surreptitious eye on the hooded figure. He hasn’t moved. Yet. And the pulse is steadily getting more regular, the further toward the holo-coaster at the end of the pier.

It’s a new installation, with sandwich board signs proclaiming its newness and technological advancement, and promising “THRILLS!” Judging by the line snaking around the corner, it’s not false advertising. Or, at least, it’s novel enough to seem like it isn’t. The device in her hand gives out a pulse, vibrating twice, and she nods to herself, coming to a halt and thumbing a few commands into the interface.

_That’s it. Hello there, Mystery AI. Let’s see what it is you’re so interested in._

The scanner chimes, displaying a large green check mark, on the screen, and, taking a moment to check over the readout, she tucks it into the inside pocket of her coat.

_Got it! Now let’s-_

A heavy hand lands on her shoulder, and she whirls to find a bone-white mask, ringed by a collar of what looks like spent bullet casings. The hooded figure in the alley is still in place, swinging its head toward the newcomer. Watching, but... seemingly not intervening, for now.

“Nothing personal,” the man rasps, withdrawing a wickedly curved dagger from a sheath at his waist, and spinning the blade outward in his fist, “I do have my orders.”

He raises the knife.

There’s a blur of movement, a flash of red.

And then, there she is, spear locked against her assailant’s knife, holding the blow at bay.

Everything about her looks a little more ragged, more worn, than the last time; there are several new rents in the leathers, closed with visible stitching, and a nasty cut on her cheek, stuck closed with some sort of green-tinged resin.

But her eyes are just as fierce as she throws a quick glance over her shoulder toward Elisabet.

“What are you waiting for!?! **_Run!!!”_**

People are beginning to scatter, now, in the face of the brawl, the queue dissolving into chaos as shrieks of alarm and screams of terror fill the air, and the inhabitants of the top deck make for the stairs. It’s easy enough to step back into the flow, and move with them, away from the battle. Away from danger.

But logic be damned, she finds herself slowing to glance anxiously over her shoulder, searching out the girl. The second assailant has moved from hiding to intercept her, and she’s begun to put distance between herself and the attackers, with the deck clearing of bystanders. The bow she’d previously worn slung across her shoulders is in her hands, now, and she’s nocked three arrows on the string, ready to fire.

It’s all she can catch a glimpse of before the tide of pedestrians sweeps her away.

The crowd spits her out at the base of the staircase nearest the carousel, the chaos having not quite reached the lower level, yet. Several people are even making for the stairs, intent upon figuring out just what’s going on atop the pier’s second layer. As she does her best to get her bearings, to figure out the next step in this wildly deteriorating situation, something streaks through the open air overhead, striking the carousel at its peak. The jaunty tune playing from the speakers crackles. Fizzes. Dies. And is replaced by a hollow, buzzing hum, which coalesces into a voice.

“ ** _ALPHA PRIME._** ”

It’s the same voice as the one in the security recording from the Balodis Lab, and, involuntarily, Elisabet stumbles back a step. The _malice_ in that voice... the _menace_.

The _**familiarity**_.

_Does it... recognize me somehow? What’s an “Alpha Prime?”_

Reddish-black tendrils have begun to crawl over the dome of the carousel, and, as the passengers scramble off and away from its central platform, it begins to rotate again, slowly at first, but with increasing speed. Several of them lift from the top, lashing out over Elisabet’s head, as though trying to strike at something behind her.

**_“AND... THE ENTITY.”_ **

_Entity...?_

_That’s_ a new one. Craning her neck back, she peers over her shoulder in the direction of the AI’s ire.

Seemingly finished with the fight above, the girl has vaulted over the second story’s side, hitting the ground and rolling to her feet in one smooth motion, spear in hand. Her eyes, fixed on the carousel’s blighted roof, blaze with anger, and her nose crumples up into a ferocious snarl.

_They_ know _each other._

Somehow, it’s a surprise to Elisabet, even though it’s a logical conclusion to draw; they’d both come from the same space in time, after all, if Balodis’s device is really what he says it is, and from the middle of a fight, at that. But it’s one thing to _hear_ , and quite another to _see_.

As the girl paces forward to join her at the carousel’s base (wearing the green scarf she’d handed over at the auditorium in Stanford, she observes, with a strange sense of satisfaction,) the speed of its rotation begins to increase even further, and the AI’s voice takes on a smug note.

**_“FOOLISH TO GATHER. BOTH WILL BE... DESTROYED.”_ **

The carousel is whirling at top speed, now, the painted animals a blur as they rush past. In their prescribed paths. In a circle. The girl watches it, tense, hands gripping the spear, as it spins. And spins. And spins.

“What...?”

Brows drawing together in confusion as the carousel continues its mad dash in place, she looks to Elisabet for explanation, the spear tip lowering until it touches the ground.

Elisabet recognizes the mistake as the red veins atop the carousel’s peak flash and pulse with what can only be described as increasing frustration.

“It... just spins,” she explains, raising a finger and cranking it in a circle, “it’s for children to play on.”

It takes a moment for the girl to register her words. But when she does, she grins, planting the end of the spear and leaning on it to watch the frenetic pace of the carousel’s motion.

“ _Pretty_. It’s a much better look for you than your last one!”

The AI doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, the carousel’s base rattles. Rises a few inches from the ground before slamming back down. Begins to rise again. The girl’s frown returns, and, picking up the lance and slinging it across her back, she jabs a finger toward the carnival ride, again. 

“It’s... should it be doing _that_?”

This time, when the base lifts from the ground, it stays up. Begins to rise up the length of the central pole. 

“Not normally...”

Then, the entire thing lifts completely, wrenching off of the central pole, and rolls over toward them.

Letting out a shout, the girl lunges for her, even as she turns and reaches out for the girl. Somewhere in the space between them, their limbs meet, and they tangle around each other, watching, moving, pushing (“Left! Further left!” the girl shouts, yanking on her arm,) and finally, ducking, into the gap between the rolling top and the outer rails, and folding down into as tight a ball as they can manage, each shielding the other’s head.

There’s a crash. A splintering of wood and a groaning of metal. Something with a leathery texture slaps across her shoulders, and she flinches, even as her brain registers it as the reins of one of the wooden horses.

And then... quiet. Sawdust drifts through the space in waves, tickling her nose and throat and drawing out an explosive sneeze. She can hear the girl coughing violently, as well, just out of her line of sight. Wiping her face viciously on her sleeve and clearing her throat, she searches the space until she spots the blazing red of the warrior’s hair.

“You okay?”

Scrubbing at her own face, and snorting grit out of her nose, the girl nods. A handful of colorful splinters have tangled themselves in her braids, giving her a riotous, carnivalgoer’s look.

“Yeah. Not too bad. Are you?”

Grinning wryly, she reaches up to ruffle a layer of sawdust out of her own hair.

“Just great.”

Something in the girl’s shoulders seems to relax at that, and she lets out the weariest sigh that Elisabet has ever heard from a person under the age of thirty.

“Good. But will you _please_ find a place to hide? I’ve already told you once. And they’re going to come for you twice as hard, now that HADES knows you’re looking for it. You need to disappear.”

Instinctively, Elisabet reaches out to pick the largest of the splinters from the girl’s hair. She flinches at first, then nods, inclining her head and allowing the shards to be picked loose. 

“HADES? Is that the AI?”

The final splinter clatters to the ground, and the girl shakes her head viciously, running her fingers through her hair to dislodge the last few bits of debris.

“Yeah. Don’t go to war with it. It’s dangerous. _Very_. Just... get someplace safe. _Please_. I... the _world_ can’t afford to lose you.”

Rising to her feet, she leaps for the nearest pole, grasping onto it and swinging herself up to perch atop it. Elisabet makes a belated grab for her foot, missing by a mile.

“Wait! I-”

But she’s already gone, hauling herself up and out of the wreckage, and vanishing through a hole in the carousel’s top (in an admittedly very impressive display of athletics. One that Elisabet’s damaged shoulder isn’t going to be able to keep up with.) 

For a long while, she’s left alone with her thoughts in the dim space, staring at the hole into which the girl has vanished. She can hear the commotion beginning on the other side of the carousel’s bulk; voices calling in officious tones, the hum of approaching drones, the dull bleat of a siren....

Finally, letting out a terse sigh, she shakes her head.

"Sorry. I can’t let this one go. ”

Especially not if it means eliminating an enemy, and making the poor kid’s life easier. She can’t go head to head with the masked group, no.

But she _can_ use the skills she’s got.

Pulling the scanner from the inside of her coat (and letting out a sigh of relief at the undamaged state of the little device,) she thumbs open the Data pane and begins to read.


	7. Chapter 7

Elisabet has two problems.

And, as per usual, she's working on both at once.

The first, to parse out the data gathered at the Pier, determine the AI's directive, and from there, to design a capture device and tailor a lure that will bring it in. Easy enough, really; she's already running the script.

The second? To avoid being killed while doing it. Easy in theory. But dangerous to field-test, even with an ally on her side. And likely, maybe, probably, possibly... _slightly_ illegal.

But when has that ever stopped her? Not nearly often enough.

The soldering is all finished, and she's making the final adjustments when the screen stops advancing. Setting aside the pieces she's been assembling, she pulls the display toward her, rotating her chair to face it, and frowning at the analysis thoughtfully.

"OK... let's see. There's three distinct programming styles, here. This one..."

Reaching out to trace a line of commentary, sending a ripple through the holographic display, she taps the fingertips of her free hand against the workbench’s top.

"Programmer 3, I guess, by volume. Very rudimentary, at first. But rapidly increasing in sophistication. Mostly... patching? Repair work? Very... verbose comments, anyway. Programmer 2..."

Trailing off, knuckles pressed to her lips, she frowns at the proffered sample.

" _Wow_. No annotations. No documentation. _Someone’s_ confident."

And with seemingly good reason; once again, she runs a finger over the lines of code. There’s an _elegance_ to them... a simplicity that seems born of familiarity. Shortcuts, redirections... whole loops and if-then statements that Elisabet herself would have included, reduced to a few, more refined commands, presumably referenced elsewhere. Demonstrating a familiarity with the code that borders on innate.

“It’s... kind of beautiful, in a way,” she murmurs. “I wonder if this is the AI itself? Making changes, streamlining, reducing error?”

It makes perfect sense. But... somehow, she can’t reconcile the thought of the vicious creature from the Pier with the elegant script. Her intuition simply won’t allow it.

Putting aside the problem for now, she moves on to the final section of code, clicking open the attached text file, and scanning the numbers briefly.

"And, let's see... the bulk of the code..."

She trails off as Programmer 1’s comments come into view, leaning forward and seizing the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip.

“Oh, _hell_."

She knows _that_ style of notation.

...Elisabet has _three_ problems.

Pulling open a browser window and hammering in the forum’s address, she logs in, feet jiggling impatiently beneath the table, and clicks into the private messages channel, double-checking her privacy settings and network before thumbing open Voice Chat.

The call rings three times before he answers, nearly blowing out her eardrums with the volume of his shout.

“Lizzy! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She flinches back from the burst of sound, face screwing up instinctively. God, she can already feel the headache coming on...

“Have you been doing any AI work lately?”

Tate clicks his tongue thoughtfully.

“Not that I’m aware. Some freelance software stuff, app stuff... cryptocurrency mining... standard breaking and entering stuff, I don’t mind admittin’. Not AI, though. That’s more your wheelhouse, ain’t it?”

Even though he’s (probably) miles away, and the call isn’t a visual one, force of habit has her waving a sharp hand toward the output window containing the suspect code.

“Yeah. Well. I’m looking at a sample of one, here, that’s got your commentary all over the code. Real nasty piece of work, too. Threw the Pier 39 Carousel at me, last week. The _entire_ thing.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

“‘Scuse me, what the _what_?”

The reaction is so predictably _Travis_ that she can’t help but chuckle.

“I know, it sounds insane. And _that’s_ not even the craziest part of the whole affair. I’m, uhh...”

Briefly, she considers explaining things. Or at least, trying to. It’s an endeavor she rapidly gives up on, settling for a terse sigh and a shake of the head, instead.

“I’m really tangled up in some crazy stuff right now.”

There’s a few clicking noises, a clattering of keys, then a low whistle.

“Sure sounds like it. _Damn_. Really did a number on the thing, didn’t it? How weren’t you _flattened_?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose and squeezing her eyes shut again, Elisabet bites back another sigh. She really doesn’t want to go here. _Really_ doesn’t. But... is there another choice?

“Uhh. Pull up some security footage. You’ll see.”

More clicking. More keyboard-thumping. And then a knowing chuckle that makes fighting back a groan _difficult_.

Yep. There it is. Pieces, together. Peace, gone.

“I think I do. And this would be why you asked about black-market cloning, huh?”

Turning the pinch into a full-fledged face-rub, she nods, remembering again in mid-gesture that the call is voice-only.

“Mmhm. And why I took the sample in the first place; I agreed to trap this thing. Gratis. I’m under contract.”

She can almost see the lazy, sardonic smile that typically accompanies Tate’s “oh I see you” drawl. Can almost picture him leaning back in his chair.

“Gratis, huh? Against this thing? Nah, nah, nah. You’re either gettin’ something else outta this, or totally crazy.”

Doing her best to transmute her annoyance into sarcasm of her own, she lets the end result drip into her tone. _Damn_ the man and his intuition. He’s too good at this by half.

“The latter. But, also, invested. What about you? Wanna help catch it? Standard Miriam contractor’s rate, of course.”

Thankfully, he lets the topic of the girl go, snorting derisively at the offer, instead.

“You kidding? Take a crack at this crazy, murderous thing? ‘Course I do. Sounds like a barrel ‘a laughs. When do we start?”

Some of the annoyance ebbs at that, and, quickly compressing her progress so far into a more easily-sent format, she clicks the file into the transfer pane, ok-ing it for download.

“Now. I’ll send you a copy of the sample file. See if you can’t get a hint at what the directive is. I’ve got one more thing to finish here before I can really dig into things, myself. And, uhh... keep your head down, much as you can. Not that I really need to tell you that.”

The file transfer window marks completion, and, with noncommittal agreement and one of his usual parting quips, he logs off. Elisabet watches the forum window absently for a moment longer, processing the conversation and drumming her fingers on the tabletop, before closing down the browser window and reaching for her pet project again.

_He’s either interested, or hurting for cash. Either way, I guess it works in my favor._

Slipping the little device back into place and picking up the screwdriver, she picks up where she’d left off before the script had interrupted her work; testing. Tweaking. Tuning.

_You’ve caught me off guard twice, now. First time, your fault. Second time, mine._

Tightening the final screw, and setting down the tool, she flexes her fingers, testing the fit of the device, and reaching for the attached power pack, still resting on the table.

_There won’t be a third time. Count on that._


	8. Chapter 8

According to the information she’s parsed out from the files stored on her Focus, (and from the occasional trip into one of the small establishments tucked away throughout the city, with their multitude of displays and network access points,) there are twenty-four Zero Dawn-affiliated targets within the city, not counting the visiting Dr. Sandoval (whom, she is happy to note, is safely away, and out of HADES’ reach. For now.)

Seven of them, she hasn’t been able to save. Twelve, she has. The last four? She’d arrived, either just ahead of or on the heels of the Eclipse, to empty houses. Deserted apartments. Hopefully, the word has been spread (probably by the twenty-fourth,) and they’ve someplace safe.

The twenty-fourth _herself_ continues to be _stubborn_... if the glow from the windows that Aloy _thinks_ are hers is anything to go by.

"Of course you haven't gone, yet," she grumbles, giving the lighted windows a halfhearted glare. It doesn't last long, though; her face breaks, and she manages a weary smile.

"I'm... kind of proud that you haven't, though. Not backing down from a challenge. I guess it-"

Abruptly, she comes up short, the smile evolving into a full-fledged grin.

"I guess it runs in the family. _Heh_... how long have I been waiting to say _THAT_?"

The outside of the building is... mostly glass. A difficult climb. Especially with the rain beginning to patter down. Shivering as a drop lands on the bridge of her nose and runs down its length to drip off of the tip, she wraps her arms around herself.

It's _freezing_. And, honestly, she’s _tired_ , too. Aching with strained muscles and half-healed wounds. She doesn’t _want_ to climb the building, if she can avoid it. Squinting though the downpour, she picks out the complex’s front door, and the glowing, roughly hand-shaped panel set into the wall beside it.

"I wonder if I can just... use the door?"

Darting across the road and under the canopy covering the entryway, she touches her hand to the panel, subconsciously shifting her fingers to match the shape. After a moment or two of blinking, the panel turns green, and the doors glide open, admitting her into the well-lit foyer. She takes a moment to wring out her braids before picking her way over the rug left just inside the doorway (what a strange place to leave one,) and peering around the little space, searching for the next clue.

"Huh! Easier than climbing the building. Although, she does live at the top, I think. How do I...?"

Across the room, a pair of doors set into the wall glides open, and a woman steps out into the atrium. She gives Aloy an odd look as she passes, taking in the hides and furs of her outfit, but doesn't say anything, pausing at the door to open the flaps of her rain-shield before heading out. Aloy waits until she’s gone before poking her head through into the little room beyond.

"In there?"

There’s another panel inside, beside a set of glowing buttons. When she touches her hand to it, the entire room lurches, and then begins to _move_. For a moment, Aloy clutches at the railing surrounding the room’s edge, heart fluttering wildly. But after a moment, it clicks, and she straightens, spinning in place and studying the little room from top to bottom.

“Whoa! Oh! It’s an elevator! It looks so different!”

It’s completely enclosed, and the sound of grinding chains is inaudible through the thick walls. When it glides to a stop, and the doors open, she hardly feels the bump of contact with the top of the shaft. Stepping out through the doors, and into the short hallway beyond, she gives the elevator doors a grin as they close.

"Way easier than climbing the building. Not... much warmer in here, though.”

She wraps her arms around herself again, rubbing vigorously, as she examines the space around her. There are are two doors on either side of the hallway, each decorated with stenciled numbers. The one to the left sports a wreath of autumn leaves, twisted into a thin loop and hung from a nail driven into the wooden surface.

Even without the number to guide her, the ring of foliage draws her in; she can remember weaving little wreaths and crowns like this as a child, bestowing them upon various rocks, stumps, and branches around the Embrace. Sometimes, on the top of Rost’s head, when she found enough material to make him one that would fit.

Instinct also stops her hand just inches from the panel at the door’s side, and she frowns, trying to place the sudden uneasiness that sweeps over her.

_Something about this feels... wrong. If she's home, and the lights are on..._

Leaning in closer, she presses an ear carefully to the door; not a sound. No voices, no clattering of cookware, no footsteps... 

_…why can't I hear any sounds from inside? Is she sleeping? But it’s early for that..._

Setting her reservations aside, she presses her hand to the panel, grasping the door handle and opening it carefully when the lock clicks open.

The inside of the apartment is deserted, when she edges in through the door and onto yet another small rug, stretched across the tiled space just inside the door (and currently hosting a pair of mud-crusted hiking boots, one with brown laces, and the other, with electric green, strung with little charms.) The living space that opens up in front of her is covered, from wall-to-windows in a moss-colored carpet, and the walls themselves are painted a warm, pale brown color that reminds her a little of desert sand. Everywhere Aloy looks is _greenery_ , tucked into alcoves in the walls, twining the staircase that takes up the left part of the room, and set on tables and shelves in pots and planters. Here and there among the leaves and shoots, a set of slim tubes winds in and out of hiding, dripping water into the soil.

She barely makes it over the lip between tile and carpet before a voice booms out over the room.

“ ** _ENTITY HAS COME, AS CALCULATED._** ”

Every muscle in her body goes as taut as a drawn bowstring, and she fights back a gasp of alarm.

_HADES! It’s a trap!_

No _wonder_ she’d felt so uneasy about things!

The AI’s baleful red glow begins to spit and seethe around one of the speakers, inset into the ceiling, and she takes a step back, instinctively grasping for the lance, and the attached Master Override.

“ ** _AND NOW... ENTITY WILL_** **DIE** _ **.**_ ”

A wave of horrible, rending sound slams into her, erupting from somewhere near her right ear. It’s _agonizing_ , _disruptive_... her knees buckle, and her fingers scrabble at her Focus, struggling to tear it loose, to end the torment, but to no avail. She wants to scream, but even _that_ is too difficult to fit around the storm of noise filling her head. All she manages is a low, strangled groan.

And then with a harsh _pop_ , the cacophony is _gone_ , and she’s gasping for breath, face pressed into the carpet. A new voice is shouting something at her that she can barely hear over the ringing in her ears.

“What...?” she finally manages to rasp, raising her head and squinting at the angrily pulsing ball of red light, tendrils thrashing against the ceiling (is it just the afterimage of the attack, rattling her brains, or is there something... _green_ , tying it up?)

The voice sounds again, in her ear, louder, this time, and more audible through the fading buzz still plaguing her ears. This time, she recognizes the speaker; Elisabet.

“I said, **_RUN!!!_** _”_

She doesn’t need to be told a second time; both upstairs and down, doorknobs are rattling. Voices shouting and cursing. Loud bangs and thumps beginning to sound, as hands, feet, and weaponry are applied to the frames.

An ambush, foiled... for now. And, with HADES here, alongside the Eclipse troops currently trapped behind the doors... too many opponents to focus on, at once. It’s time to retreat.

Lurching to her feet, and wrenching the front door open...

…Aloy _runs_.


	9. Chapter 9

The rain is coming down in earnest as she explodes out through the front doors, pausing at the end of the overhang to scan the street, up and down.

"Make a left," Elisabet coaches, through the Focus. With no real direction in mind, she listens, kicking up sprays of water from the puddles gathering on the stone path. 

"Where am... I going...?" she manages to get out between breaths.

An alert pings in her ear, but she's moving too quickly to stop and check it.

"The Miriam building. Right on the water, covered in vines. You can't miss it. Use the door scanner to get into the lobby. They won't be able to follow."

Sanctuary, then; a place to lie low, and to catch her breath. At least for the moment. It’s a solid plan, and, nodding to no one in particular, Aloy picks up her feet, doing her best to pour on what speed she can.

Something whistles past overhead, striking a metal sign mounted partway up the streetlight's pole with a harsh clang, before clattering to the ground at her feet. An arrow, fletched with black feathers, the tips stained with red dye.

_Oh no..._

Skidding to a halt, Aloy whirls on her heel, searching the darkness behind her for signs of the missile's origin. Two bone-white masks glint in the glow of the streetlights. And a third cultist is lagging behind them, still too far back to be more than a silhouette.

"Pursuit..." she pants, hand hovering uncertainly toward her spear, "s-still want...?"

There's no hesitation in the answer.

"Yeah. Not much further, now."

But the Eclipse have numbers on their side. Numbers that allow them to rest. To regain strength in a way that she can't. Slowly, bit by bit, the difference becomes apparent, and the distance closes. The vine-shrouded shape is just beginning to loom on the horizon when she finally gives up, veering off the footpath and into a broad square of cobblestones that abuts it. In the center, a tiered fountain trickles placidly, the rain kicking up splashes from the pool at its base.

"I'm not going to make it. I'll have to stand and fight."

Something is pushed back with a grating of metal on the other end of the line.

"You're right on the edge of the campus, now, just-"

There's no more time to listen. Whirling on her heels, she turns to face the pathway, snatching a handful of shafts from the quiver at her side, and unslinging the bow from its perch on her shoulders. Nocking three arrows at once and drawing the string back to her ear, she takes aim, and fires, hand darting back into the quiver for more as soon as the string snaps, and the first volley is away.

The first of the cultists catches two of her arrows, one in the center of the wooden mask, and the other, directly in the heart. He crumples on the spot, even as she whirls the bow toward the second one, sinking an arrow into his throat. This one takes longer to die, gurgling and clutching at the feathers sprouting from his neck. In fact, he's just beginning to still when the final member of the pursuit band steps over his body, and into the pool of light spilling from the street lamp above, and a cold shock of alarm races up Aloy's spine.

She knows that plumed helm. The red feathers sprouting from the pauldrons. The black-lacquered metal, surrounding dispassionate, pale eyes.

The Terror of the Sun has come along for the ride, as well.

Reaching for the wickedly curved knife, sheathed at his side, he draws it with a harsh ringing sound, taking his time, reveling in the shudder that she can't suppress at the noise. At the step she falls back as he takes one forward.

"I think," he says, in an eerily calm voice that sends another chill crawling over her scalp, "that we were in the middle of something, when last we met."

Keeping her eyes firmly on her foe, fixing her face into a lurid glower, Aloy falls back another three steps, putting more distance between them, rolling the bowstring between her fingers. This is a fight she can't win. Not as exhausted as she is. Not when he's fresh. If she can just... maneuver backwards... cover her retreat toward the building as tactical, instead of flight...

Helis lunges before she can finish the thought, lightning-quick, and she reels back, away from the slashing blade, frantically putting distance between them. Her free hand gropes for another arrow, finds the shaft. The shot collides with his pauldron, clattering harmlessly to the ground, and he curls his lip, eyes glittering with anticipation as he closes the distance with another lunge, sending her backpedaling again.

The next arrow finds purchase in his unarmored thigh, but it doesn't seem to slow him down; he snaps the shaft off with a quick twitch of the wrist, tossing the blue-feathered end aside, and, curling his lip and growling audibly, continues to stalk forward. She backs another three steps away before her foot catches on a loose cobblestone, and she stumbles. He's on her in a flash, seizing her by the collar and dragging her in close, leaning down to look her in the eye, until his face is just inches from hers.

"I have been waiting for this moment since Sunfall, child," he hisses, and she draws back from the warm, fetid breath pluming against her cheek, "And now... I'm going to _enjoy_ it."

Turning, he begins to stride back toward the center of the square, tugging her along behind him. Aloy does her best to dig in her heels, snarling and spitting and clawing at whatever part of him she can reach. But her feet can't find any purchase on the wet stone, and her blows do nothing to shake off his hold. Abruptly, her toes collide with the lip at the base of the pool, and, seizing her bow hand at the wrist, Helis whirls behind her, drives her forward against the stone, and forces her head beneath the water's surface, even as the impact drives the air out of her lungs.

She thrashes in his grip, reaching around to claw at his wrists, at his hands, at anything she can find. But his grip is like iron, and her strength is ebbing, with each passing moment without air. Her vision seethes. Begins to crawl around the edges, black spots dancing across the space between her eyes...

And then abruptly, the pressure is gone, and she hauls her face out of the water, coughing, gasping, spluttering. It takes her a few solid moments of deep, heaving breaths, before she finds the strength to push herself up and around, slipping back against the fountain in mid-turn and bracing herself against its edge. Helis, spinning the hilt of the knife languidly in his hand, is making his way across the square toward the edge at an unhurried pace, toward the spot where a new combatant has entered the fray, arms spread wide in a challenge, a fist-sized stone gripped in her left hand.

A new combatant with a blazing red braid thrown over one shoulder.

"Yeah, that's right," she shouts, giving the stone a little shake, and inclining her head toward it, "and there's another one with your name on it, here, too. What are you going to do about it?"

Another shock of horror hits Aloy like a bolt of lightning from a Stormbird's claws. If she'd had any doubts before, the sound of the voice erases them, filling the space with fear, instead.

_You need to go!_ she wants to scream, _you can't fight him! Get out of here!_

But for the moment, she's far too busy trying to catch enough breath to get back to her feet. And... deep in her gut, she already knows; she won't make it in time. She _can't_ make it in time.

It doesn't go as terribly as she expects; Helis makes a few attempts to toy with her, at first, swinging the blade in almost languid strokes, before snapping it out to carve at her chest, her stomach, her ribs. Surprisingly, none of the strokes connect. Elisabet watches the movement of the knife hand with intense focus, and slips back, out of its reach, at the last minute, sliding back up into place once the swing has passed.

The conclusion is still inevitable, in Aloy's mind, despite the surprising amount of defensive skill her predecessor seems to have. But that doesn't make it any less horrifying when Helis reaches out in the direct aftermath of a swing, catches hold of her by the shoulder, and forcibly drags her toward him across the slick ground, ramming the knife straight into her gut.

At first, Aloy doesn't realize that the animal scream of _rage_ and _pain_ and _despair_ , is coming from her own throat. The blood roaring through her ears and the thrum in her head are distorting things too badly.

_No!!!_ **_NO_ ** _!!! Not again!!! Not her, too!!!_

It takes her a few minutes of unadulterated panic to realize that... Elisabet is still on her feet. And that, at best, she looks mildly uncomfortable, face more akin to a person who's just eaten a particularly sour berry than a person who's just been stabbed.

" _Urggghhhh_. It really _is_ like getting hit with a hammer," she groans breathlessly, one eye squeezed shut.

Under ordinary circumstances, Aloy would very much enjoy the dumbfounded look spreading across Helis's face. But these are hardly ordinary circumstances, and she's far too busy trying to sort out what the hell is happening to laugh at her foe's dismay. Withdrawing the blade, Helis thrusts it forward again. And again. And a fourth time.

None of it seems to make a difference to Elisabet; she flinches with each impact, wincing, letting out little huffs as the breath is driven out of her with each blow. But she doesn't fall. Finally, she raises her right hand, waving it in an almost conciliatory way.

"OK, OK, enough, big guy. My turn."

With one final little wave, she drops the hand onto his forearm. There's a _crack_ like a frozen branch snapping in an ice storm. Helis's whole body jerks, spine going ramrod straight. Something in the front part of the armored bands crossing his chest pops in a shower of sparks. When she lets go, sidestepping neatly, he crumples into a twitching heap on the pathway.

Sliding something off of the hand and tucking it into an inner coat pocket, she steps around him, offering the now-bared hand to Aloy as she nears.

"Can you stand? We should get out of here. I don't know how long that'll keep him down, and that trick probably won't work a second-"

Aloy is on her feet before she can finish the sentence, patting anxiously at the rents in her overshirt. Her fingers brush stiff, rough fabric, treated with something that has a rubbery feel to it, tucked underneath the shredded outer layer. But there's no blood. Not even a trickle of it. The knife hasn't pierced through the strange material.

Drawing back, studying her predecessor's face for signs of pain, for a moment or two, she finally reaches the conclusion that she is _not_ , in fact, bleeding to death, letting her shoulders slump and a little sigh of relief slip out through clenched teeth.

Then, she balls up her fist, and drives it straight into Elisabet's jaw.

It's not enough to _really_ hurt her; she knows her own strength too well for that. But the yip of pain and surprise, and the hand that shoots up to rub at the spot are gratifying.

Before she can get the obvious question out, though, Aloy has her in a crushing hug. And, after a moment of stiff confusion, she feels arms wrap around her shoulders in return. Judging by the soft tone of her voice, she's put the pieces together fairly well.

"I scared you, didn’t I? I’m sorry."

Aloy has never liked admitting to pain. To weakness, or the feeling of fear. All things that can be used against a person, to wound them further. All ammunition in the slings of her foes. But now...

Now, she can't seem to stop _trembling_.

" ** _Stupid_** ," she mumbles viciously into Elisabet's collar. She feels, rather than hears, the chuckle in response.

"I always have been, yeah. We really _should_ get going, though."

When they pull apart, there's a dark stain on the breast of the shirt. The fear returns with a sharp abruptness, making her head swim and her knees feel weak.

“You _are_ bleeding...”

Frowning, Elisabet touches the stain, bringing up clean fingertips. Her eyes travel from her hand across the space between them, and suddenly the frown inverts, brows drawing together in concern.

“No. No, I’m not. It’s _you_.”

Reaching down, Aloy searches, until she finds the rent in the leather, just above her stomach. The rain washes it away almost as soon as it touches her fingers. But there's no mistaking the heat flowing out of torn skin. Numbly, she pulls her hand back, watching the downpour carry the stain away in little red-tinged rivulets.

" _Oh_..."

The pain hits a second later, like a whip-flash of heat across her ribs. And it's the straw that, at last, breaks her back.

For the second time, her vision seethes, narrows, crawls with dark spots, and then, fades entirely. Her last clear memory is of her knees finally buckling, and someone letting out a shout of alarm, from what seems like a distance away. She doesn't remember the impact with the ground. Or anything that comes after.


	10. Chapter 10

An incoming call alert startles Elisabet awake. Fumbling blindly for the "Accept" icon, she rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand, bringing her wristlet around to position the speaker in front of her face.

"Nnnnyeah?"

Even with her eyes closed, she recognizes the voice; Travis again.

"Kinda late for you to be sleepin' in, ain't it?"

Letting out a groan as she levers herself up into a sitting position as carefully as she can (not carefully enough... ow, ow, ow,) she sweeps her hair out of her face, cracking an eye to squint at the time listed at the bottom of the holographic display.

"Issit morning? Already? Wow."

Travis lets out a low whistle.

"Holy _hell_ , Lizzy. You get in a bar fight or somethin'? You look rough."

Ah. Video call, then. Finally forcing her eyes all the way open, she grins wryly at the image hovering just above her wrist.

"Knife fight, actually. Even if you're wearing body armor, stab wounds bruise up like hell."

A hand climbs into the frame to tap at his chin, and he gives her a droll look, one eyebrow raised.

"And... you got stabbed in the jaw, too?"

Automatically, she reaches up to rub the spot in question on her own jawline.

"No, that one was... karma. Anyway, enough about my evening. What've you got for me?"

There's a light thump somewhere offscreen, as he begins the process of tapping a cigarette out of the pack. That alone is enough to set off alarm bells in Elisabet's mind, and it banishes some of the remaining sleep-fog.

_Uh oh. He only goes for one of_ those _on a call when he doesn't want to look me in the eye. This... must be pretty bad._

"Something you ain't gonna like. Seeing as you're already sittin' down, I'm just gonna get into it; I've isolated the directive. It's... _bad_. Extinction of global life bad."

That wakes her up; despite the zing of pain that the motion causes, she sits bolt upright, eyes going wide.

" _What_ the **_hell_**."

Gripping the end of the cigarette between his teeth and clicking on a lighter, he busies himself with lighting the smoke, still doing his best not to look at her.

"And my signature's on it. Yours, too. Like I said. Not good."

The bruises really don't like the jolt that shoots through her at that bit of news. " ** _What_** the _hell_ ," she repeats, again, emphasizing the phrase differently this time.

_My signature!? On something meant to facilitate extinction???_

It's inconceivable. _Literally_ inconceivable.

And somehow, that helps her break through things; there _has_ to be a mistake, here. She can tease it out when there isn't an advanced AI, seemingly bent on destruction, on the loose.

Setting the problem aside, for now, she steeples her fingers and presses the tips to her mouth.

"OK. So, then... that makes a little bit more sense, I think. A lot of the people on the list I got, they're... biologists. Ecologists, zoologists, botanists... and associated sciences, too, like marine and atmospheric chemistry. No experts, no mitigation."

Tate clutches the cigarette between his knuckles, stabbing it forward for emphasis.

"A lot... but not all?"

Pulling up the list for reference again, she makes a noise of assent.

"There's quite a few historians, too. Cultural and religious scholars. Archaeologists... my not-aunt's on it. Yes, _her_ ," she adds, when he opens his mouth to ask, "I'm... still not sure where the common thread in all this is."

He considers it, for a moment, before stabbing the cigarette at her again.

"Think your maybe-clone would know the answer?"

Reflexively, she throws a glance over her shoulder toward the stairs, shaking her head.

" _Definitely_ -clone. And maybe. But I'm not waking her up to ask her. She needs the rest after... did I mention that I committed healthcare fraud last night, too? Multiple counts? _Dammit_. When did my life get so _weird_?"

Even though she's busy massaging her temples as she asks, she can picture the look that accompanies his delighted chuckle with _perfect_ clarity.

"I have... rarely been so proud of you, Lizzy."

Rolling her eyes in exaggeratedly slow motion, she swings her legs over the side of the couch, gathering up her borrowed quilt in one arm and putting it to the side.

"Oh, fuck you."

Popping the cigarette back between his teeth, he takes another long drag on it, taking his time with the exhale, and briefly obscuring the camera in a cloud of smoke.

"Now, c'mon, we both know that neither of us is interested-"

Cutting him off, she waves a hand, as if to fan it away.

"Go to hell, then. And stay safe on your way there. This thing's got teeth. And it's wily."

He lays a hand flat against his chest, smirking.

"Not wilier than ol' TT, I'll guarantee you that. I'll get to work on that lure. Talk to you when the code's fresh out the oven, 'kay?"

"Yeah. I've got the capture unit under control. First breadcrumb's set to drop a week from last night. I'm shooting for completion sometime around then; got the parts machined already. Just need to do the assembly and install the UI. Let me know if you need extra hands."

He signs off with a little mock-salute. For what seems like a long while, she remains where she is, studying her knees. Worrying.

_Well, now what, Lis? Seven days, half a plan, and a sick kid on your hands, to boot. What's going to happen if you don't get it done, and you lead them right to her, while she's still vulnerable, like this? Right to_ both _of them?_

Anxiety paralyzes her for a few minutes more, trotting out all of the horrible what-ifs that her mind can conjure, before she finally shakes it off, hooking the handle of her tool case with her foot and dragging it out from under the coffee table, into reach.

_I'm just not going to let that happen, that's what. Thinking it to death doesn’t help when I’ve got a to-do list with action items on it; time to get the ball rolling._

Or, in this case... the solder spool.


	11. Chapter 11

For a while, it’s hard to separate her dreams from reality; it all flows together, into a series of visions and fantasies without clear seams.

An image of Helis driving his dagger into the heart of a figure that seems to shift, moment to moment, between Rost, Elisabet, and even GAIA a few times, is featured prominently, again and again. There’s one that’s nothing but a low hum, and a sensation of movement, of light flowing across the backs of her eyelids in a rhythmic pattern. Another, of lying on her bedroll beside a campfire that’s far too warm for comfort, sweating and shaking, but loathe to move. Of the feeling of a cool, comforting hand against her cheek, of something soft and warm wound around her shoulders, of something that feels vaguely like an insect sting, piercing her arm, and encouragement to rest, this is going to help with the fever, but you need to rest, Miss Sobeck. An image of the pier on the edge of the city, colorful and full of life, but also full of GAIA’s machines, Watchers capering about among children who giggle at their antics and tumbles, their wiry necks draped in garlands of paper and bright flowers. Of sick pain, tugging at her ribs, a hand in hers, and a rough voice murmuring that it’s almost done, darling, just a little bit longer-  
The bed does seem reasonable; the gentle spill of weak, gray sunshine across the quilt tucked around her shoulders, the pale green of the walls, hung with pictures of mountains and forests and still lakes, the soft drift of snow past a window that frames a cloudy sky...

But then again, there is an animal lying in it with her.

It’s roughly the shape of a fox, with pointed ears and a long snout, a bushy tail sweeping back and forth over the quilt behind it as, seeing her eyes open, it moves its head to rest on her shoulder. But it’s big, closer to the size of a boar, and its fur is black and white, patterned in blotches and patches that leave large swaths of each color isolated, with no blending between them.

When she greets it with a hesitant “Hello...?” its tongue shoots out to slurp at her cheek, and she grimaces, unclenching her hand from the tight grip it's been keeping on Rost's pendant, and reaching up to wipe at the sticky slobber left behind.

“Eurgh... what are you doing with that?”

Her fingers brush the healing cut on her cheek as she cleans away the saliva, and she pauses, patting at its length from corner to corner. The sealant from her medicine pouch is gone, and the area has been smoothed over, covered by a square of coarse fabric stuck to the skin with some kind of adhesive. When she reaches for the (strangely quiescent) wound sliced across her ribs, her fingers touch the raised bumps of stitching beneath a thick bandage. And a material that definitely doesn’t feel like her leathers.

Sure enough, when she pulls back the blankets, she’s dressed in an entirely different shirt and leggings, loose-fitting and made of a soft material that she can’t quite identify. Inspecting the little table beside the bed, she finds her Focus, charging up in a beam of sunlight, slipping it back onto her ear before swinging her legs over the side of the bed and rising to her feet.

“What... happened?” she asks the creature, not really expecting an answer. “How long was I asleep?”

The beast lets out a little wuff sound in answer, hopping onto the floor beside her and bending its forelegs toward the ground in a deep stretch. When it shakes itself in the wake, something jingles around its neck, and Aloy catches sight of a leather band, with two flat slices of metal attached to its side. She catches the slices in mid-shake, peering at the letters engraved into the surface.

“Arrow?”

The creature’s ears perk up, and it lets out the little wuff sound again, tail beginning to whisk back and forth. She can’t help but smile at the reaction; she has to admit, it’s... really sort of an endearing beast, once the initial shock of having it around has passed.

“Is that your name? Arrow? It’s a good one. I’ll bet you’re really fast, aren’t you? You fly true, straight to your target?”

Pulling away from her grasp, Arrow trots toward the far wall, where a door, leading to a set of descending stairs, hangs ajar. It turns back to stare at her, pausing at the threshold, and she picks up on the cue quickly.

“You want me to follow?”

When she does, the beast continues on down the stairs, pausing to make sure that she’s still tagging along behind it. It leads her, bit by bit, through a wood-paneled room, and into another, smaller one, filled with the clattering of metal and the stomach-crunching scent of something cooking (she doesn’t realize quite how hungry she is, until she gets a noseful of it.)

It's a strange setup, the more she examines it; a workbench that rings the room, with several metal boxes set into the underside, or into gaps carved out of the middle of it, and a table set in the open space between the door and the walls. There's a familiar cavity-and-spigot in the center of one of the stretches, beneath a window overlooking a snow-covered expanse of ground, dotted with pines and scrubby underbrush.

At one of the boxes, a woman with close-cropped silver hair, shot through with a dusting of reddish-gold, is clattering away at something hidden just out of sight, back to the door. Arrow trots forward without any fear, and rams its nose straight into the back of her knee. She lets out a strangled, harsh noise, whirling to confront the creature, a flat metal implement clutched in her hand.

“Guh! Dammit, Arrow-!”

As she turns to wave the animal off, she catches sight of Aloy hovering in the doorway, the look of annoyance on her face morphing into a companionable smile.

“Well, hey! Good morning, sweetheart! Feeling any better?”

Caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone, and the strangeness of it all, Aloy falls back a half-step, feet moving automatically into a more defensible position directly beneath the lintel.

“Uhh...?”

Without waiting for an answer, the woman sets her tool on the workbench and steps around the table, laying the back of her hand against Aloy's forehead, and nodding to herself after a moment or two.

“Yeah, you don't feel as warm as you did. Good! Great. Take a seat. You’ve gotta be starving.”

She hooks one of the chairs surrounding the table with her foot, gesturing to it invitingly, before returning to what turns out to be a skillet, placed atop a metal grill on the box's top, and picking up her cooking utensil again.

"Do you do coffee?"

Arrow trots over to flop down next to the chair as she slides into it, still more than a little bit baffled, but not quite ready to refuse an invitation of hospitality. Especially one that comes with the attached promise of food; she really is starving.

"Coffee...?"

The woman gives her an appraising look, before opening one of the cabinets set into the wall, and pulling down a vessel not unlike the ones that Aloy herself once gathered and traded with Studious Palas.

"Probably not, then. Here, let's do this, instead."

She does admittedly feel a little bit of smug satisfaction over the accuracy of her guess at their purpose as she wraps a hand around it and sips at the tangy juice that it's been filled with. As she turns back to the stove, the woman inclines her head in Aloy's direction.

"How's the wound?"

Automatically, Aloy brushes a hand over the bandage at the mention of the injury.

"Not bad... it doesn't really hurt at all. Are you the one that stitched it?"

Retrieving a plate from a higher shelf in the cabinet, she nods as she begins the process of transferring the pan's contents onto it.

"Yeah, that was me. Not my best work, to be honest; I'm not a human doctor by training, and I've been retired for a while now... literally out of practice. Heh. It'll get the job done, though, I s'pose. You had a little infection going in this one, too-"

As she sets the plate on the table, she reaches out to tap at another bandage, this one wound around her upper arm, just above the left elbow.

"-so I went ahead and cleaned the rest up, just to be on the safe side; you've got an antibiotic on board, too, but... better safe than sorry."

Pausing in the middle of contemplating the plate's contents (she recognizes eggs, some sort of sausage, potatoes... and... something that looks a little bit like Carja maize-bread, but far thinner, and not nearly as yellow,) Aloy frowns at the unfamiliar word, trying it out for herself.

"'Antibiotic?' What's that?"

The woman pauses as well, in the midst of gathering cutlery from a drawer built into the workbench's lower half.

"Uhh, a type of medicine that kills infections, or prevents them if they haven't set in, yet."

Handing the utensils over to Aloy as she pulls out her own chair, she flops into it, resting her chin on her hand.

"Usually, we tailor them to a person's body chemistry, so they work more efficiently. Fortunately for you, you share that with my daughter. She'd already worked it all out when she pulled up with you yesterday night... don't ask me how. All of that technical know-how goes right over my head."

Her mouth is full, now, with her third hasty bite, but it doesn't stop her from asking.

"Your... daughter?"

The woman grins, and, despite the sarcasm in her tone, there's a glint of very real affection in her eye as she speaks.

"Yeah, you know; red hair, builds robots, thinks she's a lot more clever than she actually is?"

Aloy nearly chokes in mid-swallow at that.

"Elisabet??? You're... Elisabet's mother???"

The grin only widens at that, and she nods.

"That'd be me; the less-important Dr. Sobeck. Call me Rachel, if you don't mind."

Hunger momentarily forgotten in a rising tide of excitement, Aloy leans forward over the table, stabbing the fork toward the woman for emphasis.

"She talked about you in her records... there was a file, the night before the battle on the Western Ridge... she mentioned a pine tree? One that caught on fire?"

A wry look passes over Rachel's face, and she nods, gently pushing the fork hand away to the side.

"Ah, yes. I can show you the tree later, if you'd like. What remains of it, that is."

Craning her neck to peer back into the room behind her, and then toward the door on the other side of the table, Aloy frowns lightly.

"Where is she? Is she all right?"

Rachel waves a hand dismissively.

"Fine, fine. Bruises, stiffness, nothing she can't handle. She's putting something together out in the old barn; knows better than to solder in the house, by now. She’ll probably want to know you’re up and about; she’s been worried about you."

For a brief moment, Aloy’s appetite deserts her, and she lets the tip of the fork rest lightly on the plate’s edge. Even after several encounters, and with blood shed together between them, the idea of a sustained conversation with her predecessor is... intimidating, somehow.

But she can hardly avoid it, now.

She draws in a deep breath. Lets it out slowly, tapping lightly at the plate with the ends of the fork.

"I should... probably talk to her about some things."

Pushing back her chair and standing again, Rachel puts a fingertip on the edge of the plate, sliding it lightly in Aloy’s direction.

“That can wait until you're finished your breakfast, and I’ve had a look at that wound. Then, we’ll find you something warmer to wear, and the two of you can tramp around in the snow getting into whatever kind of fights you please. Hmm?”

The end of her sentence drips with sarcasm that Aloy matches, digging her fork back into one of the sausages.

“Ok, ok. Yeah. Twist my arm.”

Arrow sits up, putting his head on her knee and giving her a hopeful look as she does, and, from the other end of the room, where she’s busied herself with cleanup, Rachel lets out a little snort.

“Don’t give any to Arrow; forbidden. He’s a terrible beggar.”

It’s a rule that Aloy breaks almost immediately, slipping the creature a piece of the flat, crispy bread when she thinks the coast is clear. But judging by the little smile she catches on Rachel’s face, she’s fairly sure that it’s not actually too forbidden, at all.


	12. Chapter 12

It doesn't take Elisabet long at all to dial fully into the project. 

Holding still for too long in the face of something anxiety-inducing has never been her style; it's far better, and feels more natural, she's found, to throw herself straight into the teeth of a problem, and focus all of her attention on it.

And the VICaR is coming together nicely. The parts are already designed to fit neatly together, and fortunately, the solder is behaving today, without too much need to back up and redo problem spots. The steady pace of the work sucks her in, and keeps her too occupied for worry. Too occupied to overthink.

So when a set of fingers suddenly twines into her hair, she's caught completely by surprise, and lets out a a little yelp of alarm, automatically balling her hand up and swinging as she whirls toward the source of the touch.

Fortunately, the girl catches her fist in an open palm with ease, gently pressing down on it until it falls back into her lap. Raising an eyebrow, she puts on an awkward, apologetic little smile.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

It takes her a moment to fully grasp the situation. To back down out of fight-or-flight mode, and into the real world again. But she eventually manages an equally awkward smile, shaking her head.

“No harm done, Miss Sobeck. Glad to see you back on your feet.”

At that, the girl frowns, tilting her head as though studying something she’s more than a bit suspicious of.

" _What_ did you call me?"

For a moment, Elisabet wonders if she’d offended by the title. But, no, that’s not the feeling she gets from the tone of her voice; it’s closer to incredulous.

"You... got into the apartment with a gene-scan. Only someone with my genetic identity or my mother's could have done that. And since Mom's eyes are blue..."

Trailing off, letting what they both know hang between them, unsaid, she shrugs.

"Either way, it'd make your surname Sobeck.”

Once again, the head takes on a hawk-like tilt, and the girl raises her eyebrows.

"You're... giving me your name?"

There’s something _hopeful_ in her eyes that hurts to look at. Instead, Elisabet shrugs again.

“I can’t give you what’s always been yours. And it has. Since you first started existing. That's how surnames work.”

She knows that “existing” is the wrong way to put it even as the word leaves her mouth. Even before the girl does her best to hide her flinch by rolling her shoulders and focusing her eyes on her hands, which have suddenly become restless, twisting around one another.

“I’m- I-I mean, I’m-“

Raising a hand, Elisabet cuts her off.

“I know what you are. And I...”

This time, she takes a moment to think. To construct her words more carefully. Forges ahead with hesitancy.

“Ok. Look. I... never thought I’d be in this situation.”

That gets a snort from the girl.

“ _Yeah_. I _bet_.”

Automatically, she finds herself rolling her eyes.

“ _Astounding_ observation, Sherlock. But you’re right. It’s... something that I’m still kind of working my head around. I’m willing to... no, I _want_ to give it a chance, if you do, too.”

It only takes her a moment of hesitation that looks more reflexive than anything to nod, vigorously.

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Clapping her hands together and inclining them in the girl's direction, she hooks the stool next to hers with her foot, dragging it out from under the table.

“Good. Well! Now that no one’s trying to kill us at this exact point in time, I have... _so_ many questions for you. And I’ll bet you do, too. Here, sit.”

Again, the girl nods emphatically as she slides into the chair, and reaches out to twine her fingers into Elisabet’s recently-shortened hair.

“Yeah... what happened to your _hair_? You cut it, I can see that, but... it’s not _red_ anymore.”

This time, she’s prepared, and she leans into the touch a bit, making it clear that the exploration is allowed.

“Dyed it, too. You did say I needed to disappear. So, I changed things a little. You’d be surprised how many people a simple change like this can throw off. We can do yours too, if you’d like.”

The girl’s nose crinkles up at that, and she shakes her head, letting out another derisive little snort.

“No. I want them to _know_ it’s me.” After a moment, she adds, “...is this color forever, now?” with some trepidation.

She doesn’t want to shake her head with the girl’s hands tangled up in her hair like this, so she settles for a wordless, hummed negative, instead.

“It’ll wash out, eventually.”

Nodding, the girl runs her fingers through one more time, then, absently, she begins to plait some of the strands into a little twist, reaching up to pluck one of the beads from her own braids, and setting it on the tabletop.

“Good. I _like_ the red.”

She can't help but smile at that, allowing the girl to braid in silence for a minute or two before the curiosity gets the better of her, and she taps her foot impatiently against the bottom bar of the stool.

“All right, my turn. You’ve got a name, right, Miss Sobeck? We’ve been through a couple of tight spaces together, and I don’t even know your name, yet.”

At first the girl looks surprised at that, pausing in mid-plait and frowning as though it’s a thought that hasn’t occurred to her. But, eventually, her face relaxes into a grin that looks... strangely amused. 

“Aloy.”

Aha! Elisabet rolls the name around on her tongue, trying the sound out for herself.

"'Aloy...' I like it. Sounds strong, but... it flows, too."

As she slips the bead onto the end of the braid, Aloy lets out a little sound, half-chuckle, half-snort.

"If you say so. My turn; how did I get here? I... don't remember anything after the fight with Helis... what did you do to him, anyway?"

Pausing in the midst of rolling the freshly-applied bead between her fingers, Elisabet considers the unfamiliar name.

"Helis... that's the big guy? The one who tried to drown you?"

“Yeah.”

With a little snort, she releases the bead, and crosses her arms, briefly, in an exaggerated show of annoyance.

"Well, now I know who to bill repairs for the lobby windows to. I used this."

Reaching around the VICaR and snatching up the glove and its attached power pack, she drops it into Aloy's waiting hands.

"It's a... stun weapon, I guess. Homebrewed. Uses electricity to incapacitate. All I have to do is get close enough to touch. And the armor vest prevents stab wounds, as you saw."

Pausing in the midst of turning it over and over, tracing the wiring with her fingers, Aloy pulls a face.

" _Please_ don't do that again."

"I won’t. Anyway, I was already planning on leaving the city when I got the notification that someone had accessed the apartment building. Bringing you with me, ahhhh... I thought about taking you to a hospital, but then I had the... frankly pretty horrifying mental picture of that _thing_ hacking into the medical system computers while you were vulnerable. And... a clone with no paper trail? I wasn’t sure how they’d handle that. Ultimately, I ended up working something out between the first aid kits in the central building and a pharmacy vending unit in Sacramento that I sliced into to formulate something for this...”

As delicately as she can manage, she reaches out to rest a fingertip on the left sleeve of Aloy’s jacket, just above the elbow.

"And Mom did the rest when we actually got here. I placed a hold on the records that the AutoDoc generated in response, but that'll only keep them out of the system for so long. My best guess is that we have about five or six days before they're released, and our angry friend figures out where we've gone."

Nodding along with the explanation, Aloy drops the glove back onto the table, carefully coiling the power pack’s cable beside it.

"So... what do we do when it does?"

Reaching over to seize the VICaR's shell by the handle, Elisabet gives its unfinished end a quick tap against the table, setting the hollow metal of the tube ringing.

"Well... that's where this comes in. We call it a VICaR Unit; Virtual Intelligence Capture and Restraint. It's combined with lure programming that draws in a data-based entity, and then contains it, cutting off access to networks, and locking it down with certain safety protocols."

Aloy rises to her feet, craning her neck to study the device from all sides.

"So... like a hunting trap?"

"Exactly like a hunting trap. And this HADES is the prey."

Nodding her satisfaction as she finishes her inspection, Aloy raps her knuckles on the VICaR's hollow side.

"Good. Once you have it contained, I can purge the extinction protocol from its system."

The incredulousness must show on Elisabet’s face, because she pulls her hands away from the half-finished device, roughing out the size and shape of something in the air with them.

"There's an override device attached to the spear I’ve been wielding. One that only I... well, _you_ and I, can activate. It'll purge the extinction protocol. Pull out HADES' fangs. Once it loses that, it’ll probably only be a danger to us. So... manageable, then. I’m sure we’ll figure it out."

She _almost_ asks. The curiosity, the nagging sense of _shame_ , is almost too much to bear.

_Did I_ really _sign off on that_ thing _? That thing that wants to wipe us all out? That thing that’s tried to kill us both, more than once? That hurt you, and pursued you, and that will hurt you again, if I fail to trap it when it comes?_

But... after a moment of reflection, she decides that she’d rather _not_ know the answer. Especially if it’s going to paralyze her with guilt at a critical juncture.

Instead, she waves a hand toward the soldering setup.

“OK. So.... we’ve got our work ahead of us; I’ll finish building this thing, get the programming installed and ready to go. You? _Rest_. Get your strength back. You’ve been going pretty hard and fast for the past month, I’ll bet. I wish I could’ve given you more time, but...”

Trailing off, shaking her head, she spreads her arms helplessly, in apology.

To her surprise, Aloy shakes her head as well, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s fine; five days is more than I usually get, actually. It’ll be enough. The next time HADES comes for us...”

She gives the shoulder a little pat, eyes alight with determination, a smirk on her face.

“...we’ll be ready.”


	13. Chapter 13

"This would be... your grandfather, if we’re defining things like that," Rachel says, pointing to one of the images pasted into the book spread across their laps, "Elisabet's father. Jack. We... weren't married when he died. And she hadn't been born, yet; she came a few months after."

Aloy studies the image carefully for a moment or two, running a finger along the edge of the depicted man's chin.

"He has a kind face. And I think I have his jawline."

Rearing her head back to take in the shape of it, eyes flicking between Aloy’s face and the picture, Rachel nods, slowly.

"You do. And his _smarts_ , too. He was a doctor. Worked on new, emerging diseases, trying to figure out how to treat them. He was one of the first to die of the last one he worked on... tripura, it was called. We didn't know how it spread, back then, and he picked it up from one of the people he was trying to help."

Now, she runs her own hand over the image, fingertips lingering just shy of the man’s broad smile.

"He would have _adored_ both of you."

Even years later, there’s so much heartbreak in her voice, in her face, that it break’s Aloy’s heart a little, too. Gently, she slips her fingers into Rachel’s, pulling her hand away from the book, and giving it a little squeeze.

“I wish I could have met him. I think I would have liked him, too.”

For a moment, Rachel is silent, returning the squeeze, and swallowing hard. Behind her glasses, Aloy can see her eyes fluttering rapidly in an attempt to hold back budding tears.

“Everyone in this family has... always been driven. Has always had a strong desire to heal. To understand. To _protect_. …your blood’s not the only reason you belong with us, sweetheart.”

This time, it’s Aloy’s turn to swallow the lump in her throat. 

The rattle of the glass door breaks the spell as Elisabet slides it open, completed VICaR in hand. Arrow shoots over the doorstep ahead of her, tail whisking back and forth as he trots to each of them in turn, pressing a cold nose into the crook of Aloy’s elbow and sneezing all over a thoroughly annoyed Rachel as he does.

"I hate to break things up," Elisabet quips, setting the device on the floor and stamping the snow from her boots, "but he's got our scent. We've got... I'd estimate maybe six hours before this guy is breathing down our necks."

Gently scooting the book fully over into Rachel’s lap, Aloy rises from the couch, reaching for the ever-present lance, and thumping its blunt end against the floorboards.

"All right. What's our plan?"

As she latches the door behind her, ruffling Arrow's ears absently when he completes his circuit and pokes at her knees with his snout, urging her further into the house, Elisabet inclines her head toward the cylindrical device. The outside is ringed with glass panels, now, guarding the delicately soldered components making up the core.

"We find a place to set up the VICaR. Somewhere away from people, ideally. I have a spot in mind. _If_ our guy shows up, and _if_ he responds to the lure, it’ll take about sixty seconds for the download to complete."

There's not much doubt of the outcome in Aloy's mind.

"He’ll take the bait; he’s arrogant. Vengeful. He won’t be able to resist the chance to outsmart us. But he won’t come alone. I’ll keep anything he throws our way at bay. _You_ focus on the capture.”

Judging by the tight, uneasy look on Elisabet's face, it's not an idea she's entirely fond of. Without saying anything herself, Aloy raises a brow, inclining her head, and gets a hand raised defensively in return, palm out. A quick, choppy shake of the head.

“I know, I know. You can handle yourself. And I trust you. I just...”

With a wry grin, she wraps her other hand around the spear, using it to lean forward and tilt her head back up, jutting her chin out this time rakishly.

“...worry? I’ve noticed.”

She waits for the snort of amusement. For the return quip. For the escalating series of playful barbs that she’s come to enjoy over the past several days of beginning to fit the pair of them comfortably into her life.

But all she gets this time is a stricken look, and a set of knuckles tightened around the VICaR's handle in anxious fear. 

“Will you take the armor vest, at least? I won’t need it with you protecting me.”

The apprehension in her voice is infectious, and it does quite a bit to knock the teasing edge off of Aloy's mood. Nodding more solemnly, she wedges the lance through its sling, busying her hands with the wholly unnecessary task of adjusting the fit, just to keep them active.

“Of course. And I won’t die, either. So, one less thing for you to worry about, there.”

_Now_ , she gets a half-laugh, still strained, but approaching something normal. Some of the tension eases from her own shoulders as well, at the sound.

“Good. _Don’t._ ”

It takes several hours to gather the rest of their gear, and load it into the back of the metal chariot. Rachel pulls her aside as she finishes tucking the last of a brace of freshly-made arrows into her quiver, booting up the small device wrapped around her wrist, and stepping Aloy through the transfer of a series of numbers and words into the Communications pane of her Focus. 

"My contact information," she explains, "just in case you end up in trouble."

Aloy reaches out to take her hands one last time, giving them a little pump.

"Got it. But we won't need it. We'll see you tonight. You might want to set things up for one more guest. An _angry_ one."

\--

The forest isn’t particularly thick at the base of the mountains, with tall pines, standing aloof from each other in patches that thicken and deepen as the road bends up into the hills, toward Tahoe and the surrounding ski resorts. Not the sort of area one would come willingly to for recreation, for certain. Not with better options nearby, and the year so close to turning, at any rate.

At the base of one of the more solitary pines, taller than the rest by a measure, branches spread wide as if to hold back its neighbors, the roots lift, forming a little divot in the ground that Elisabet can remember crawling into as a child to hide. A secret fortress, now far too large for her to wriggle through. But the perfect size to accept the VICaR and the squat tripod on which she’s resting it for balance.

“Ok. Set. I'm activating the signal now.”

At the device's top, a tiny green LED begins to blink rhythmically, and, checking over the other indicators spaced along the cylinder's length, she nods, satisfied for now.

For what seems like hours, they settle in to wait, huddled quietly next to each other as the sun slips away over the top of the mountains, and the breeze picks up, bringing a light snow with it that gradually becomes thicker as evening fades away into night.

Finally, just when she's about to suggest that they call it quits for the night, and try again tomorrow, Aloy raises her head, swiveling it left and right, turning an ear to the rapidly growing storm.

" _Shh_. I think..."

Rising to her feet and thumbing on her Focus, she peers out into the snowy gloom, squinting against the flakes beginning to settle on her eyelashes. After a moment or two of scanning, she nods to herself, unslinging the bow from its customary place on her shoulders, and nocking an arrow, fingers trailing up he fletching gently in rhythmic little strokes.

"Yeah. Here they come. Whatever you hear... stay back."

Draping a hand over the VICaR's handle, ready to twist, Eliabet gives her a resolute nod.

"Easy enough."

...which turns out to be a _wholly_ inaccurate assessment. Ignoring the battle is... one of the hardest things she’s ever done.

Every clash of metal on metal, every arrow-zip and bowstring-twang sets her nerves jangling like a string symphony. Twice, Aloy cries out in pain, and she turns before she can stop herself, heart kicking anxiously against her ribs.

It’s not, strictly speaking, necessary: at full strength after days of rest and recovery, freed of the need to defend a target at close range, the girl is a whirlwind of death and metal, loosing arrows with dizzying speed, and spinning the deadly end of the lance between her foes in a blur of blue light. It's _mesmerizing_ to watch.

Even when, of all things, a forklift-bot comes clanking up the hill, headlights blazing an unnatural shade of red, mechanical arms whirring, she doesn't seem to be flapped. If anything, the gleam in her eye as she whirls the spear in a tight flourish at her side is _eager_.

With a concerted effort, Elisabet tears her gaze away from the melee.

_Focus. Focus! She can handle herself. Just focus on doing your part. That's how you help her, here._

Minutes tick past. The sounds of battle continue, human shouts and bowstring-snaps slowly giving way to the creak and whine of machine-limbs, and the clang of metal on metal. 

And then, all at once, there's a sound almost like the hiss of an emergency flare, and a flash so bright that she forces her eyes closed instinctively, wrenching her head to the side and gritting her teeth, the VICaR erupts with light.

_There it is!_

Moving automatically, even with the afterimage of the AI's blazing arrival seared across the backs of her eyes, she whirls the top into place, the pieces of the trap clicking together smoothly. Circuits complete as the wires align. Power flows, bringing portions of the device to life, kicking programming long-dormant into motion. The red glow seethes and spits against the VICaR's windows, pulsing with indignation. But her handiwork holds firm. For the time being, at least, the hateful thing is contained.

Letting out a breath that she can't remember beginning to hold, Elisabet takes a moment to compose herself. A moment is all she has; the crunch of Aloy's approaching footsteps, just audible over the patter of wet snow against the surrounding trees and the liner of her jacket, demands attention.

Wrenching the VICaR out of the snow by its handle, she spins toward the approaching footsteps, grinning triumphantly.

"Done! Got it!"

It's not Aloy.

Instead... she's staring right into the pale, dispassionate eyes of the massive man from the fountain square.

Hastily, she lashes out with her gloved hand. But, as she predicted, it's no good; he catches her wrist in mid-swing, fingers tightening around the joint until the bones groan under the stress, and she inhales sharply, trying not to squirm in pain.

"Your luck," he hisses, "seems to have run out, at _last_. Let me show you your _true_ place in things."

Almost lazily, he draws back his free hand, cocking the knuckles toward her.

Elisabet has time to think, _Oh fuck._

And then the knuckles collide with her cheekbone, slamming her head straight into the trunk of the pine.

The bright starburst _crack_ of pain is the last thing she remembers.

\--

With a roar, Aloy drives the spear straight through the machine's core. The lights in its optic sensors flicker, sputter, and then die, as its stocky legs collapse under it, and the loading arms at its front fall limp into the snow.

Wrenching the weapon free, she takes a moment to catch her breath, pushing errant hairs and stinging snow crystals out of her eyes and scanning the battlefield for her next opponent.

Things have fallen still, much to her relief; the only sound is the wet splatter of snow against the machine’s chassis, against the armor vest and the coat underneath it.

_Not as bad as I thought it was going to be. And no Helis, either. Maybe he's out of commission for the time being, after the hit he took back in the city. THAT would be a relief._

Pushing sodden braids out of her face, and letting out the tension of the fight in an explosive sigh, she spins the lance back up and over her shoulder in an admittedly showoffy flourish, tucking it neatly back through its sling.

“Did you get it?”

There's no immediate answer. Shaking a fresh coating of snow out of her hair, and turning atop the machine's carcass and raising a hand to shade her eyes against the whipping snow.

"Hey! Did it work?"

Still, nothing. There's only the chaos of the battlefield. The howl of the wind through the trees... 

...and an empty space under the pine, where the VICaR had been set when they'd first arrived.

Icy dread hits Aloy like a punch in the gut.

_No!!!_

Scrambling off of the downed machine and floundering through the snow toward the base of the tree, she reaches for her ear, pulling up the user interface, heart fluttering in her throat. The Focus highlights a set of tracks, a deep, circular impression in the snow in amongst the roots, and a dark stain, spattered across the trunk. Even before she drags her fingers through it, she already knows what it is.

Blood.

This time, the fear that roils over her is strong enough to take her breath away. Squeezing her hand into a fist, digging her knuckles into the flesh of her palm, she grits her teeth, forcing herself to count her breaths. To put the immediate urge to do something, _anything_ , out of her mind and _think_ about the situation.

_Ok, ok, don’t panic. Panicking doesn’t help anyone. Look for tracks. Look for a trail to follow._

It’s easy enough to find. Sort of. The deep boot-prints sunk into the snow are in the process of losing their distinction, as the wind and the whipping flakes begin to fill them in. The purple Focus markers begin to stutter about ten feet from the tree's base, and then, to appear infrequently toward the edge of the device's range. In the sick depths of her gut, she knows that she won't reach the trail's end before the storm wipes the footprints clean.

_And you also won't help anyone by getting lost in the middle of a blizzard and freezing to death, Aloy. Stay_ focused _. Do what's best in the_ end _. Even if it means doing something that feels wrong_ now _._

Swallowing hard, swiping the interface over into the Communications pane, and selecting the contact option that she'd programmed in before leaving the house, she settles against the base of the tree, curling in on herself as tightly as she can manage, and giving in to her desire to shudder as she waits for the answer on the other end of the line.

"Rachel? I need you out here. We're... we're in trouble."


End file.
